


Half-Formed, Half-Finished

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [134]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Academia, Fluff and Smut, Library Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 02:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15921146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Tony thinks the library will be free of Steve-centered distractions. Tony is wrong.





	Half-Formed, Half-Finished

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Library, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, and Fluff. Prompts from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

His phone rings three times while he’s in the stacks; twice more once he settles down at a table. Well, it doesn’t ring; more like does a vibrating mambo in his pocket because hey, Tony’s a lot of things, but he’s not an asshole about libraries. They’re friendlier than Google, less prone to algorithmic interference. And there’s coffee, though not always of the wholly drinkable kind.

The work he does, the writing, it benefits from some occasional tunneling, some locking out of the rest of the world so he can concentrate fully on just this one thing. He’s got an office at home, obviously, a carefully cozy room with a fireplace and a nice wall full of books, a big desk and unlimited fresh-roasted goodness down the hall in the kitchen whenever he needs a break.

But home also has Steve and Steve is very disruptive to Tony’s thought process, whether he’s actively trying to be or not. Just knowing that he’s stretched out in the den grading papers or in the kitchen talking himself through making dinner or upstairs in bed, half asleep and half hard, waiting for Tony to finish the chapter or the sentence or find that one perfect word, is enough to smash Tony’s concentration to pieces. Self-control has never been his forte, period, and knowing Steve is nearby, is lonely, is being super supportive by staying out of his way just makes it a 1000 times less likely that Tony will buckle down and just get it done.

So: the library.

So: his cell phone on silent.

So: a full eight Steve-free hours focused solely, productively, on his work.

Except: his cell won’t stop vibrating. Hell. He should’ve put the damn thing on mute.

He tugs it out of his jacket to do just that and notices that it’s Steve who’s been calling, Steve who he’s missed--what the fuck--seven calls from in the hour and there’s no freaking way that’s good. None. And there are five messages. Five?! Christ. Steve hates voicemail, will go old man yells at cloud about it when he really gets going, fusses about how it jump started the steady creep of humanity away from face-to-face contact and now there’s email and texting and why doesn’t anybody these days want to just sit down and talk and if he’s left five of the things, five, made himself a robo-slave to technology then something must be real the fuck wrong.

Tony’s heart kicks into flight mode, a couple steps from panic, and he shoots up from his chair, scurries over to the window to catch a better signal, except---there’s nothing there. Nothing discernible, anyway, in any of the damn messages: just the sound of Steve breathing weird, too hard and too loud, and a rustle of fabric, like the phone’s caught in a clothes dryer. Except in the last one, at the very end, there’s one word, neon through fog: “ _Tony_.”

There’s so much pain wrapped up in it, so much hurt, that his knees buckle, that he has to grab unsteady at the window sill, try to catch himself on the wall.

There are thousand questions in his head, a dozen truly terrible scenarios, and counting--a heart attack? A kidnapping? A car crash; oh god--and he’s two steps from jamming the line open and fucking calling 911 when he smells it: fierce and sharp and wonderful and not something that belongs here, not something that should be anywhere outside of their house, their bedroom, their great white nest of a bed, and before his brain can catch all the way up, his back’s biting the wall, there are two hands on him, and he has a big, squirming armful of Steve.

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve says, a live echo of the recording, “Tony, god. Tony.”

He’s clutching at Tony, squeezing him, pressing him hard against the wall behind the stacks; two steps around any of them and somebody would see. And Tony would be objecting, in the strongest possible terms, honest, if Steve didn’t smell the way he does, desperate, like a full rush of springtime, like cupcakes on acid and the best kind of burnt sugar, like he’s in the first blush of his heat.

So it isn’t Tony’s fault, not really, that his first instinct is to catch Steve’s face in his hands and kiss the hell out of him, drag that sweet, eager tongue into his mouth and tangle it greedy with his own.

The sound that Steve makes is so not library-appropriate. But what the fuck about this scenario is?

Steve ruts against him, mindless, happiness pouring off of him in waves now, now that Tony’s touching him, now that Steve has his alpha right where he wants.

The toppiest damn omega, Steve is, the most insistent, the most ready to give Tony direction/marching orders and the beauty of it is he’s like that even when he’s not crazed out on hormones, when his body takes over and leaves no room for his big, beautiful rational mind. He’s bossy as hell as a man, not just as an omega, and Tony thanks his deity of choice regularly for helping them find each other, for steering them to the same godawful faculty holiday party where they were the only ones who didn’t show up already drunk. They’d sat out on the Dean’s porch in the cold and shared a cigar, a half bottle of the Dean’s better scotch, and Steve had walked him home, arm tucked through his, ostensibly just to stay warm. A kiss on Tony’s front step, then two, and twenty minutes later, Steve was sinking onto his cock, blinking down at him with those wide, shining blue eyes. “Come on, Tony,” he’d said, leaning down in the darkness, his knees biting hard into Tony’s sides. “Give it to me good.”

Five years and two cities later and Steve could still make him blotto, could cloud his head faster with a smile than any double-aged scotch ever could. Never mind in the blitz of his heat--an unexpected heat, an unplanned one, which wasn’t unheard of; it’d happened a couple of times before. But it’d never been so bad or so fast that Steve had come looking for him, had tracked him down in public stinking like this of sex. God. Quiet or not quiet, there was no way the whole floor--maybe the whole goddamn building--didn’t know what was happening here, what was gonna happen if Tony couldn’t drag Steve elsewhere and fast.

But Steve smelled so fucking good and he was wet already, god was he; damp everywhere, sweating, and painfully hard. He whimpers when Tony touches him, strokes a hand over the tense curve of his ass, and his scent grows even brighter, like the sun shoving up to midday.

“Did you run all the way here?” Tony murmurs.

A nod. “Couldn’t bring myself to get in a cab. And the train”--Steve shiveres--“too many people. Too close. I might’ve...I don’t know what.”

“Might’ve rubbed up against somebody you shouldn’t?”

“Maybe.”

A roil in Tony’s gut. It’s just talk, his head knows it, but his body downright doesn’t care. “Might’ve let somebody else have you? Is that it?” He nuzzled Steve’s neck, let him feel the catch of Tony’s teeth. “Were you so desperate for an alpha you were afraid you couldn’t wait?”

Steve clawed at his back, his hips moving desperate now. “I didn’t want to, I would never, but you weren’t there and I was so--I wasn’t sure if I could wait until...”

There are other people nearby; Tony can smell their shock, their amusement: no alphas but a few bemused betas and, oh, another turned-on omega. Fine. Whatever. Fine. He has his own right here, Steve, and Steve’s ready for him, Steve needs him, and he doesn’t need a heat to remind him how much he needs Steve.

“Turn around,” he says, the words coming out with a bite. “Do it now.”

In a moment, Steve’s hands are on the wall beside the window and his jeans are at his knees and his scent is a fist made of flowers, a wall of gorgeous, aching smell that Tony is drowning in, that Tony is dying to taste, but the instinct to take is too strong, the instinct to shove in, to fuck, and then Steve turns his head, pins Tony with those beautiful, blue-sky eyes, full of love punching it out with desire, and whispers, whispers: “Please.”

There’s no more whispering after that, there can’t be, not in the heart of a hurricane of skin and slick and sweat. The wall gives way to the floor and they’re tangled together, making a mess of the cold concrete, of each other’s bodies, of the still de rigueur library quiet and calm. And in the end, when Steve is spent and Tony’s tied up inside him, their faces pressed together, their breath steadier now, in stereo, a different sort of stillness settles over them, over the long stacks of books, over the now-empty tables and cold cups of coffee, open tomes and half-formed, half-finished thoughts.

“What are you working on, anyway?” Steve asks.

"Hmmm?"

That earns him a poke in the ribs. "This paper that you're so hell-bent on finishing. What's it about?"

“Baby,” Tony says, dreamy, tucking his nose against the warmth of Steve’s neck, “I have no fucking clue.”


End file.
